Some paths are never meant to loop.
They stretch in one direction.
Without fork.
Without border.
Without witness.
And when you walk them long enough, you forget what it meant to turn around.
Shen Wuqing had walked far.
Through tribulations without form.
Through heavens without memory.
Through scriptures without names.
And now—
He stood on a bridge suspended over nothing.
It had no start.
No end.
Only one rule: keep walking.
Beneath him, silence.
Above him, silence.
Around him, silence.
But within him, the sound of something deeper—
A hunger that no longer asked for permission.
His robes fluttered.
Not from wind.
From the weight of all that no longer followed him.
Friends.
Sect.
Family.
Self.
They had all stayed behind, like shadows too slow to keep up.
He glanced once to where he had come from.
There was nothing.
Not even steps.
The bridge devoured its own trail.
As if the world itself was ashamed of having offered him passage.
He kept walking.
One foot.
Then the next.
Each step sank into the bridge, not physically, but conceptually.
As if every pace was a refusal of existence.
Then something moved.
Not ahead.
Not behind.
Within.
His skin rippled.
A memory surfaced.
A boy with bleeding wrists.
A prayer spoken to nothing.
A scream too tired to rise.
He paused.
Breathed.
And whispered:
I remember.
And the bridge responded.
A single stone rose before him—etched with words:
To go forward, you must know you cannot return.
He stepped over it.
And felt the memory vanish again.
Not lost.
Offered.
Another step.
This time, the silence changed.
It deepened.
Became aware.
As if the void had noticed his presence and was unsure whether to absorb or avoid him.
Then—
A voice.
Not loud.
Not kind.
Just… present.
You do not belong.
He did not look.
He simply said,
Correct.
Why do you walk?
Because I cannot stand still.
You will not be accepted.
I do not ask to be.
You will be forgotten.
I welcome it.
Then you are already dead.
No.
I have never been more alive.
The voice faded.
Ashamed.
Or perhaps satisfied.
Another step.
Then another.
And then—figures.
Ahead, on the path.
Shifting.
Flickering.
Silhouettes of people.
Dozens.
Hundreds.
Thousands.
All of them wore his face.
But not his gaze.
These were versions of him that chose to stop.
Wuqing who stayed in the sect.
Wuqing who believed in love.
Wuqing who forgave.
Wuqing who begged.
They stepped forward.
Blocked his way.
Spoke in a single voice.
Turn back.
He shook his head.
You are not me.
We are what you could have been.
Then be that.
But I am already devoured.
They reached out.
Pleading.
You can still return.
There's still time.
He walked through them.
And they screamed.
But not in pain.
In dissolution.
One by one, they unraveled.
Not from violence.
From rejection.
They could not coexist with what he had become.
Because choice requires duality.
And he had none left.
He walked on.
No more figures.
No more stones.
Just the path.
Then, far ahead—
The end.
Not a wall.
Not a gate.
Just a thinning.
As if reality had stopped being sure of itself.
The bridge curved slightly.
He followed.
And then, he saw it.
A door.
Black.
Wooden.
Simple.
But wrong.
It faced the opposite way.
As if inviting him to exit the world itself.
He stepped before it.
Knocked once.
No answer.
He reached for the handle.
But paused.
Because a voice—her voice—rose behind him.
Please… don't go.
He turned.
And saw her.
The girl with the smile he never answered.
The one who watched him walk into madness and whispered I still believe in you.
She stood barefoot.
Wearing the colors of spring.
But her face was cracked.
Like porcelain.
Her smile trembled.
He said nothing.
She stepped closer.
You'll be alone.
I already am.
It doesn't have to end like this.
It never had a beginning.
She reached for his hand.
He didn't pull away.
Because there was no warmth to reject.
Only memory.
Only echo.
You don't have to devour everything.
You're not a monster.
No.
But I am no longer man either.
Then what are you?
He smiled gently.
A path.
She faded.
Not in sorrow.
Not in anger.
In understanding.
He turned back to the door.
And opened it.
Not into light.
Not into darkness.
Into absence.
And stepped through.
The bridge crumbled behind him.
The figures were gone.
The voice was silent.
Even memory refused to follow.
And Shen Wuqing—
Fell.
Not down.
Not into void.
Into himself.
And kept falling.
Until falling was no longer a direction, but a state of being.
And there, in that bottomless now, he whispered:
I have no name.
No home.
No path.
Only hunger.
And that is enough.